


fallen star, i'm your one call away

by greenhound



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Little to NO Aphenphosmphobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenhound/pseuds/greenhound
Summary: “Jesus, Higgs. Fuck you.”
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Higgs Monaghan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 470





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (slightly) important notes:
> 
> a) i kinda rushed this fic, i apologize if it doesn't meet any expectations. :((  
> b) sam's aphenphosmphobia is very light to nonexistent here for plot reasons and the fact that i don't think i'd do it much justice. thus if you want 100%canoncompliant!sam then this isn't the place.

Sam’s crossing a quarry when it first happens.

“Well, well, well,” a voice calls out, long and confident and stupidly smooth, “aren’t _you_ a sure thing.”

Sam starts, shifting his weight unsteadily, and carefully restrains himself from falling headfirst into an unfortunate demise. His hands find their way onto the rungs ahead of him and clench. He’s a footstep away from having to search for his body through a load of dark crap—and funny how that isn’t even his biggest problem, considering the voice in his head.

His body sways from side to side; he waits until his breathing evens out. The wind bites at his cheek, pestering, and he opens his mouth.

“What the hell.” His voice sounds raw even to his own ears; he ignores it.

He can hear chuckling now, soft but still too audible to be coming from anywhere around him. What.

“Language!” The voice calls, and Sam bites his cheek.

What the fuck.

“What the—who are you?” he asks, and when he hears only the howls of the wind, the gentle creak of the ladder under his weight, he makes his way onto steady land.

And then something’s crackling in his head, something like the static of a comm—great. He’s going to get a migraine. “Not very polite of you, Sammy boy,” says the voice. “What if I just want to talk?”

I don’t. Go away.” 

There's a clicking. "Ooh, _sorry_ , wrong answer. Was looking for - _ha,_ well, anything other than that."

Jesus. _Must’ve gotten in through the Chiral_ , Sam thinks, although nobody’s ever tried holding conversations with him before. It's his job to run packages, not chat. Especially not to lonely weirdos and/or escaped asylum patients. 

On that thought: who even let this guy onto the Network?

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’m not from the Chiral.” Sam stops walking.

Wait. What.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but did this guy just—

“Read your mind? Right on the mark.” Oh, okay, holy fuck.

The Chiral Network doesn’t connect thoughts. How the hell can this guy—how—what—what the _fuck_?

“I. My God, what-”

“Oh, sorry, _Sammy boy,_ wrong person. Close, though, close. I’m more like … a particle of him, permeating all existence,” the voice drawls, and Sam has the pleasure of knowing his new friend is crazy and big-headed. “But _you_ can call me Higgs.”

He swallows his confusion, because there’s a package due and a job to finish. He doesn’t have time to be chatting to insane, narcissistic, and possibly holy people. “Okay. Higgs. Fuck off.”

“Can’t really do that.”

“Why not?”

“I really _don’t_ feel like it.” Sam frowns. “Be _sides_ , I want to get to know you.” 

“Weird fuck,” he can’t help but mutter. “I’ve got a job. Find someone else to bother.” The cold snaps at the his fingertips; he takes a step forward and hopes the freak will hang up.

“Nobody’s as interesting as _you_ , sweetheart.” 

Shit. 

Higgs laughs, slow and loud, and Sam stifles the irrational urge to break something. “Fine— _fine_ , I get it. You’re a busy man. Wouldn’t want you to be late just ‘cause of some useless chitchat.”

He doesn’t hear any static. “Right.”

There’s a pause—then a heavy sigh. “Another time, Bridges,” and there’s another sound, something like a comm winking out.

 _He’s gone,_ Sam thinks to himself. Then: _What just happened._

Lou squeals on his chest.

“What the fuck just happened?” he says out loud, in case he wants to know, too.

-

Higgs comes back later.

(Of course he does, creepy fuck.)

He’s in the middle of kicking a remarkably malleable MULE’s head when his voice crawls bac like a _parasite_ burrowed in his brain.

“Last one yet?”

Sam groans, mostly because he’s not sure whatever voodoo this guy possesses is enough for him to see his clenched fist.

“Fucking G- nevermind,” he growls, swinging back to throw some shaken cargo back onto his load. An orange flapped freak rushes him, rubber boots flattening wet grass in uneven patches; the strands from his bola clap their head with a sickeningly satisfying noise. They fall to the ground with a squelch, pole still buzzing softly with electricity, and Sam spits.

“ _Sammy_ boy-”

“Shut up,” Sam snarls; he’s approximately two bruises and a black eye away from a good mood. 

“It’s _important._ ”

“Don’t-”

Electricity arcs up his back, embracing his spine with a ferocious, burning snap, and he yells out despite himself, falling to a knee. He can hear laughing outside of his head - unpleasant, thick, entirely unlike Higgs’s - and feels anger matching pain in his gut. He curls his fingers around a black rubber boot and pulls. The MULE slips to the ground, gloating put on hold, and Sam punches his throat for good measure.

His back burns. He takes a moment to breathe and then slams his bola on the side of their head.

Higgs laughs. He sounds delighted; Sam’s pissed off. “Aw, I _told_ you it was important.” 

Sam grits his teeth. He’s not about to let this become a regular thing. A two-off is more than enough.

“I thought I told you to fuck off.”

“You did,” Higgs notes, entirely undeterred. “I didn’t feel like listening.”

“Why not?” he asks, before he can close his mouth.

“I get bored.”

Sam’s getting pissed.

Mostly because he isn’t used to - _this_. He doesn’t like it, using his _words_ \- not accustomed to it - when a firm glare or a clenched fist usually drags him so far. 

“I’m in the Chiral. You want me to do some poking around, Higgs?” He packs the bola back onto his arm and trods forwards.

“ _Interested_ , Sam?” Higgs chuckles, although it sounds - oddly - edged. “You could just ask.”

He breathes out, heavily; weird fuck can’t - _won’t_ \- take a hint. He takes a step forward and listens to the gentle patter of building timefall. For a moment, it’s quiet, and he wonders if ignoring Higgs will really work.

“ _Sam,_ ” Higgs drawls, and Sam groans. “Don’t go _ignoring_ people. C’mon, now, play nice. ” 

“Don’t want to,” he mutters, quietly, and Higgs barks another booming laugh. For a moment, he contemplates smashing his head on the rocks littering his path; he pulls up his hood instead.

“See, aren’t I fun? Rubbing off on you already. Be _sides_ , didn’t I help you out with those MULEs? I’m not _all_ that bad.”

“You are. Told you to fuck off - what, six times already? Shouldn’t you be catching on?”

He gasps, mockingly. “Words hurt, Sammy boy. We’re not all so … _bright_.” There’s an edge, a snap at the end of his words; he doesn’t like what he hears. Sam continues forward; he can hear Higgs humming away, almost as if occupied.

He makes his way across the cold waste of post-stranding America bit by bit, step by step. He’s near late on his delivery; Higgs’s irregular chatter hardly helps things.

“Oh, tell me more about yourself, Sam.”

“...No,” he says, gruffly, mostly because he doesn’t want to.

“Why not?” He visualizes a pout on a face he doesn’t know.

“I don’t want to. And I don’t know who you are. Also, I’m going to be late.”

“Then get to know me,” Higgs’s voice lilts in excitement, a sort of tell. “Let’s see, now, what’s important … I'll start at the beginning. Pops got himself killed before I could pop out - Mom came running after him. Some disease or something.” He makes an awful popping sound; Sam’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Got raised by my _favorite_ psycho uncle. Anytime I wanted to go out or even _talk_ about the big old world … well, I got tired soon enough. I went and got myself a _good_ old knife, cut him up, and got out. And my DOOMs - well, _they_ helped plenty, didn’t they?” 

Sam takes a pause to analyze. “...Go away,” he reiterates at last.

There's a moan, loud and dramatized. “A man opens his heart, and you tell him to go away? _Harsh_ , Sammy boy!”

The porter groans, loudly. There's a sigh of defeat despite the growing cacophony of wind and timefall. “Oh, _fine._ As you command,” Higgs relinquishes.

And before Sam can hear that final, final crackle, that sound of goodbye in static and electricity, there’s a pause. “Until next time, Bridges.” A stray droplet of timefall hits his cheek; he winces.

“No next time,” he insists, but Higgs is gone - irritating shit. The ground feels unsteady under his feet.

He takes a breath, a moment to look at the gray horizon, and hugs his cargo closer as the timefall roars and his odradek blinks to life.

\---

Higgs comes back again. And again.

Sam isn’t sure what he had expected, but he certainly knows what he had wanted: to be left the fuck alone. Higgs, endlessly irritating, seems to have qualms with fulfilling this wish. He ends up having to make do.

Strangely, it becomes almost okay. He’s not one for words, for chit chatting or mingling or doing whatever Higgs seems to want him to do, but it still becomes okay. It becomes okay when he’s severed the cords of four BTs and panting, when he’s staring unblinkingly at the horizon and trying his damned best not to think and remember that BTs have origins, were _people_ before they crawled ugly and black from God’s womb. It becomes okay to break the silence he holds with an ill-placed word, something to break his focus from _everything_. It becomes okay to give him something to hate other than the things he’s forced into - the things he does anyway.

He still doesn’t talk much. When he opens his mouth to curse or snarl or tell Higgs to fuck off, it comes out deep and raw and painful. When Higgs, someway or another, finds a way to coax a laugh - mocking or near truthful - from his throat, it sounds almost wrong.

It’s starting to become okay. He treats it like a joke and Sam, for all his grumbling, does too.

Higgs, for all his worth, knows how to draw lines. He doesn’t butt in when Sam’s slamming BTs with rows of blood-laced bullets, when Sam’s a half-inch from toppling off a snowy cliff. It’s like he’s not there in those moments - like he doesn’t exist in the ruthless crunch of a limp body hitting rock.

But, occasionally, he’ll still hear a sharp hiss of breath, a quiet mutter - almost like Higgs is _praying_ for him to stay alive, to tell him to fuck off once again.

How ridiculous.

\---

“Why aren’t you as irritating as you were before?” Sam asks, eventually, unthoughtful and blunt.

He can feel Higgs smile, and, for once, he doesn’t have anything stupid to say back.

\---

Higgs had seemed to know how to draw lines.

Sam’s running brutally hot water down his face, his flesh, watching liquid run red and black in rivulets as it collects blood and mud from his skin. He twists, pale planes of flesh and skin losing old tension, to scrub absently at a scab when a familiar voice croons aloud.

“My, my!”

He tenses up all over again - Higgs doesn’t sound like he’s in Sam’s head anymore, and he can’t tell if it’s his experience with the freak’s bullshit or apprehension muddling his senses. 

“Higgs,” he says; he dislikes how he sounds more tired and _quiet_ than angry. He should be, albeit how pleased Higgs seems when he manages to rile Sam up. “What are you doing?”

“Just felt like … _popping in_...” There’s a catch in his voice that Sam doesn’t miss; he sounds different.

His throat feels like it’s closing. Truthfully, he’s not sure how to react; cussing Higgs out is a reflex for him.

“Can you see me?” he asks, before he can really think.

“Thought you’d have figured it _out_ by now, Sammy boy.” It’s too much and too little of an answer. “Aren’t you supposed to be clever?”

“Jesus, Higgs. Fuck you.”

“Oh, believe me, I’d love if you could,” Higgs drawls, lazy and slow and _sultry_ as all hell. He still doesn’t sound like himself - is he drunk?

There’s a heat, a sudden heat, pooling in Sam’s stomach; he grits his teeth. It’s not entirely foreign. He remembers it appearing when he was younger - when he was an adolescent, a boy. It’s not entirely unpleasant, either. His uncut nails dig angry red crescent moons on his skin. It’s not his fault, he amends desperately - he’s not that old, and he doesn’t get to socialize much, not with anyone other than Higgs. His - his body’s _supposed_ to-

He needs it to go away.

Water runs over an open cut and draws him back to reality; he hisses.

“Higgs. _Another time_.”

Higgs takes a breath, suddenly, heavy enough for Sam to hear. There’s something like a shadow on the other side of the glass. Sam wonders what would happen if he was to open the door.

He’s got to be drunk.

“ _Oh,_ but I _really_ wanted to talk about … certain things. Are you sure you want me to leave?”

Sam squints; he’s sure there’s something moving, out on the other side.

“Aren’t I always?” 

It’s a challenge of sorts. He’s never been good with words, and these - these can be taken either way.

The shadow darkens, grows bigger. Sam turns off the water.

Silence. Sam wants to take a risk.

The door is foggy; he wipes it, and it stays the same. When did his heart get so _loud_?

He opens the door, takes a step.

The room is as empty as he had left it. Sam wonders when he had stopped holding his breath.

\---

Days pass. They don’t talk about it.

Sam’s remarkably un-okay with that. 

He’s still shaken - Sam’s not good at talking to people, but he knows Higgs is, and that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than he likes to act. Shouldn’t he know that not talking about it - _ignoring_ what happened - is just-

He wants to know what was so important. He wants to know if Higgs - if Higgs could _feel_ what happened.

He doesn’t ask questions; he pretends it’s fine. Higgs, for all he’s worth, pretends to not notice how much quieter he gets.

And Sam - well, Sam can’t say things have changed. There had never really been _things_ to begin with. There had just been _Sam_ and _Higgs_ \- Higgs, someone on the other side. Someone he still hardly knows anything about.

He should. He could; he’s been given plenty of access to the Chiral Network’s database of endless files. 

He concentrates, instead, on the feeling of timefall on his coat, the knocking of knuckles together - the rush of the field. When he can’t, he focuses on the feeling of cheap booze coursing down his throat, on the thought of cramming the drugs gift wrapped on his back down his throat. He doesn’t, but he thinks.

Higgs’s still there. He still laughs.

Sam, for all he’s worth, pretends not to notice how much quieter he gets.

Days pass. Things are just-

For God’s sake - he’s never been good with words.

\---

Days pass. Higgs stops - stops whatever it is he had been doing.

Sam’s torso, chest, stomach feels empty with loss, and the heat - it _burns_.

\---

He enters his private quarters after a week of ruthless timefall and frenzied MULEs, fully ready to drop on his bed and _forget_. To scrub dried blood off his knuckles, to chug old beer. To bite his cheek until it bleeds.

He’s not ready for Higgs.

“Missed me?” his voice breaks in his throat, brittle and dry. Idly, Sam wonders why.

This shouldn't be happening. What the hell is he doing here? 

He's never seen him before. He blinks and thinks there should be more ostentation to this, to the thin press of pale lips.

He stands and sways; he needs _time_ to take it in, to map the flaps of his thin black coat, the white insignia on his arm that Sam doesn’t really recognize. His eyes are ringed by black, ebony tears streaking down ivory white skin, ivory white flesh. He looks better than he should; Sam steps forward.

“What the fuck?” This time, it’s a question. His voice raises louder than he’s heard it in a while; he wishes he would stop sounding so raw.

Higgs laughs. “Language,” he says, again, and points at the capsule on his chest; Lou makes a discomforted noise.

“Stop.”

“Didn’t answer the question.”

“What the hell?” he’s shouting; he wonders when he relearned how to be angry. Probably after _he left_. “When’s the last time I saw you? You can’t just-” His hands curl into fists; he really, really can’t help it.

It feels wrong, seeing his face. It’s too _real_ \- his lips, pale and dry, press into a thin line. Even when he’s on guard, he’s far too emotional. There’s a golden mask in his hand; Sam thinks he understands why.

“I can’t just what? Visit a friend?” Higgs says, slow and cautious and far too much like a warning. He wonders when he’ll understand Higgs - when he’ll understand anything about him.

When did he care to learn?

“Fuck you.”

His smile splits his face; it looks wrong. His face peels like someone’s forcing it into shape, thumbs pressing angrily into pale cheeks and pulling. He doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look like he should be smiling. “Oh, how I wish you would,” he says, slow and for the second time around. It doesn’t sound the same; it sounds hollow, _bitter_.

“ _Don’t_ do that. Don’t act like that.” The end catches in his throat; he stops talking before it can crawl out.

“Why _not._ ” It doesn’t sound like a question. It’s better this way, really, because if it were to be a question - well, Sam wouldn’t be able to answer.

“Because you just _left_.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand, but he wants. By God, he _wants_ , and he’s getting _scared_ because this doesn’t just up and happen. “You just left … do you get how fucking weird you are? You just left.” 

“And why do you care? You’re telling me you _really_ wanted me around - _whispering_ in your ear all the time. It’s fun, sweetheart, but I’ve got things to do - and, really, _I_ thought you would be _glad_ with me taking a vacation.”

Something dies in Sam’s throat. What else can he say?

“What the fuck is happening?” Sam asks, instead, because he doesn’t understand how this can just happen - how someone can just run into his head and _change_ him. How he can just leave and pretend nothing, nothing ever _happened._ “What the fuck is going on with _you_? Why did you leave?” He doesn’t let it die in his throat this time - he can’t.

He’s a fucking post-stranding courier. Why are these - things - happening to him?

“Sorry to hurt your _feelings_ , Bridges,” Higgs says, and there’s something like a scowl on his face that makes Sam wants to hit, to slam, to punch that twist of lips away, “but I was never even around to begin with.”

His tears burn into nothingness on the floor; he looks at Sam, entirely unrecognizable, and his hologram fizzles out. 

Sam looks at the floor.

It takes him a while. 

When it reaches him, he brings his fist to the wall and bites his cheek until it bleeds.

\---

"Higgs," he says, to the empty, cold air of Port Knot City. He's met with more silence.

"Higgs." He's not sure when he's listening and when he isn't.

It's not so quiet; there's the roar of wind, the crack of dark clouds steaming up above. There's timefall due in a couple minutes, and maybe a couple BTs to boot. Sam doesn't mind. He's got his bola and a whole lot of time.

Not so quiet. The timefall begins to pour. He pulls on his hood.

The flicker of a comm, over all the noise. Sam stands up.

"...what do you want, Bridges." He sounds tired. 

Sam is, too.

\---

Higgs is still Higgs. He doesn't talk about what happened or why anything is or really anything about himself. But he talks, still, he appears when Sam needs him - a "Higgs" or "Fuckface" or "comments, asshole?" away - and he feels better for it.

He's not sure when he started tolerating Higgs. He's not sure when he started _caring_ about Higgs.

He's not sure when he started wanting more.

Because Higgs - he starts to visit. He starts to appear just when Sam returns to his private quarters from a long journey, a two day trek across forest and mountain and BT territory. He suspects it's all part of an elaborate ruse to associate _safety_ with _him_ and realizes he doesn't mind.

Their talks are still meaningless, empty. Everything Higgs learns about Sam stands unmatched - birthplace for cheap laughter, adoption for meaningless flirtation. He tires of their talks often, but never tires of him.

And that makes him think - makes him _wonder_ \- despite himself. It's starting to grow, these irritations, these itches, uncontrollably; he can't look at that slender face without feeling something hot cover his skin any longer.

He can't stop _thinking_ around him; he hates it.

Higgs doesn't seem to know - doesn't act like it, for any matter, because Sam makes it less of a _thing_ than it is. 

Still - he can only do with it for so long.

He returns from hours of timefall and handsy MULES to Higgs, grinning and _feral_ as all hell, sprawled ungracefully on his bed. "Had fun?" he smirks, coat cast away for thin undergarments, and Sam sucks in a breath.

His clothes - _him_ \- he seems so thin, so lithe without that bulky raincoat. 

It feels wrong to look; Sam turns his head.

He can hear Higgs swallow; he's connecting some sort of dots, Sam realizes, and jerks his head back. He won't - can't - hear anymore incessant teasing. Not now.

Higgs blinks: once, twice. He looks at Sam and parts his lips to say something; he takes a breath and closes his mouth, replaces it with an empty smirk. "Now, what's got you so shy, Sammy boy?"

"Nothing," he says, a little louder than he should. He swallows his hesitation and sits hesitantly on the edge of his bed; he knows Higgs will drag him closer, one way or another. Might as well get it over with.

Higgs makes a noise in his throat; he rolls to face him. "Doesn't sound like nothing. Hey, hey - aren't I your closest confidant, sweetheart? Don't you trust me?"

"No." The porter forces a laugh. It sounds wrong, catches on the corners of his throat and comes out too-rough, too-jagged 

He wishes he had never opened his mouth. 

He wishes he had never gotten tangled with Higgs in the first place - not like it had been much of a choice.

Higgs sits up; there's something oddly akin to worry growing on his face. It's fucking unfair, Sam decides, how pretty he is - the vibrant cerulean of his eyes, the pale planes of skin, every drop of black rimming his eyes.

"Seriously, Sam. C'mon, now, tell me what's bugging you."

"No."

He turns his face away again and hears Higgs sigh, voice catching sharp; the heat burns furiously in the pit of his stomach, ever hungry, ever consuming. Sam wills it away desperately - it needs to die or at least _hide_ before Higgs comes and seeks.

He turns and glimpses closed eyes rinked in black, inky liquid building at their corners, and knows he's _coming_.

He's doing it. 

Earlier, he had promised - had sworn that he wouldn't look into his head anymore. He hadn't wanted Higgs abusing his DOOMs, and, sarcastic as he had sounded, he had agreed.

He wonders why he had ever trusted that. Higgs has never been one to stick by ethics, by cheap promises, by _rules_.

Panic arcs within him like a bolt, a jagged shaft of lightning - fuck, fuck, he needs everything within him to disappear, to hide, or to preferably die off forever. He can't handle this right now, he really can't, he won't - won't face the dawning look on Higgs's face, the way his eyes fly open and-

Sam stands up.

Higgs shouts something - Sam can't register quite it - and grabs his wrist before he can step away, can call his trike from the garage, can try to run.

"Sam."

His eyes are burning, flesh acting as fuel. He looks gaunt - a little pensive and a lot tired. Hepulls Sam a little up to his level and glares; idly, Sam remembers he's grown taller. 

" _Sam_."

The heat passes over him in swathes.

"We gonna talk about this or what?" 

"Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your stupid DOOMs."

Higgs smirks, despite the gravity of this stuation. Despite _himself_. Sam's lips quirk upwards, purely instinctual - he's too tired to think with anything other than his body.

"You would, wouldn't you?"

Sam snorts. "Annoying fuck."

"Didn't let me finish, Sammy boy!" the taller leans a little forwards; Sam's heart leaps to his throat. His hand's still wrapped around his wrist. Little prick probably knows everything.

"Then finish." It's more of a challenge than anything.

"As I was saying - I'd _let you_."

Sam blinks. This isn't sitting right.

"Thought you were clever," Higgs says, and he sounds far too smug. Sam isn't sure this is happening, or that he's entirely serious. He raises his hands tentatively all the same, curling his fingers on Higgs's shoulders.

"I'm not. This doesn't make any sense."

"Give it some time," Higgs offers. His nose touches the junction of flesh between his nose and his eye - he's a hairsbreadthe away, and Sam, strangely, finds no qualms with this.

"And what if I still don't get it?"

He pauses.

"Does it fucking matter?" 

He presses his lips to Sam's.

It's not much of a kiss - not at first. He doesn't move, and Sam's arms end up scrunched up between his body and Higgs's. It's not much of anything at all - just a touch, innocent as day. 

Something curls, ugly and savage, in Sam's stomach. It tells him to stop, as foreboding and _real_ as his sense of impending doom.

He ignores it and presses forward.

Higgs is hot, radiating with pure warmth, and his mouth is even hotter when it moves, slick but slow against his own. They're both hesitant; Sam hasn't kissed anyone in years - had been repelled by it for years - and Higgs, for all his eagerness, acts like he's been waiting longer. But he doesn't dislike it. He doesn't dislike kissing him one bit.

Things speed up eventually; he's a fast learner, and Higgs is even faster. Slender hands reach under the porter's laborous layers, grasping for anything free, rubbing little circles onto pale flesh. He tastes bitter at some points and saccharine at others; he doesn't mind, not when Higgs staggers a step back to the bed and pulls Sam with him.

He breaks away for a second, scrapes teeth on the beginnings of a shoulder, pushes away at thin frabric; the heat in his stomach trickles downward. Higgs lets out another laugh, warm and boisterous and familiar, and the warmth hastens its descent.

" _Sam_ ," he humms and pulls away before Sam can press any closer. "Now, Sammy boy, as much as I _hate_ to break this up, you've got cargo due in twenty and cities to connect."

Sam grunts, falling back on the mattress. "Jesus."

"Didn't I tell you who I am a long time ago?" he laughs, loud and bold, and watches Sam pull up a stray zipper.

"Fuck you." A post-stranding goodbye, of sorts, for two who know they won't stray long.

He feels his lips quirk up out of will rather than instinct and _smiles_ at Higgs's suggestive grin.

"Another time, Sam," he says, and melts into the air.

Sam sucks in a breath and lets it out; it feels lighter than it should.

Strangely, he's okay.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter is pretty much all smut
> 
> this is the pwp chapter you guys wanted lmao, hope it makes you guys happy ! unfortunately i've never written smut before; i apologize if it's bad/reads odd.

The MULE’s glowing pole hits his back sharp and sudden, a merciless lash of pain cutting through his coat like a blood-laced bullet on inky flesh. The monotonous buzz of electricity hits his ears before the pain does; he crumples forward knees first, running on muscle memory and fumes. He’s been here before, but it doesn’t make any of this any easier.

He can hear laughter spilling out garbled and ugly from the thief’s helmet and grits his teeth, steeling himself for aftershocks of pain and an overwhelming, completely suicidal urge to stumble to his feet again. Still, Sam’s smarter than he’s given credit - he falls on his side instead of curling his hands into fists, exchanges closed eyes for bared teeth. He knows, after all, that there’s another ill-mannered blow or a prod waiting for him if he doesn’t pretend to be out.

The cargo thief nudges him with a single boot; Sam doesn’t move, slows his breathing. He feels his heart slow, beat by beat by beat, and feels the impatient MULE rip at his back. Cargo hit the ground individually, box after box pried open by gloved fingers. He chews at his lip as subliminally he can and wills strength to return to him faster, wills the lingering, incessant burn to die off.

It does, eventually. He waits for a moment in the quickening of breath, in the placement of his palms flat to the ground, subliminal and subliminal and _ready_.

The MULE grips a package of crude drugs and turns away; Sam pushes on his knuckles and surges up, flinging out his hands to grab at the thief’s waist. He shifts his weight and throws him to the ground, picks up his stolen cargo in another movement, and kicks the bastard’s head _hard_ before he can resurface. Harder than is necessary, really, but he’s _irritated_ and fairly sure he’s twenty minutes late for an express delivery because of those handsy yellow fucks.

He takes a breath, heavy and ragged from exertion, and staggers to his feet. The other thieves are curled motionless on the ground beside their newly fallen comrade; his cufflinks mark them out for the count.

His spit hits the ground with an ugly sound. He slams his boot into the head of an unlucky MULE, grunts, and drives away in their last truck for good measure.

\---

Sam gets back to his private quarters fourteen minutes later, thoroughly scolded and wet and as wound up as Mama with a hand on new tech.

He throws himself onto the bed and curls into an unseemly ball, trying to steady his breathing. He’s not pleasant when he’s like this - when he’s fresh back from a journey through BT territory, when he’s trudges through mud and sludge and snow and _still_ arrives late.

When he finds his heart won’t stop pounding, he throws his thin undershirt away and steps hastily into the shower. It’s hot, pleasant, and does absolutely _nothing_ to calm the jumpiness, the irritation binding him like rope. 

Still, he amends, it does rinse the mud off. His fingers, acting on impulsive and near individual will, tear greedily at a dark red scab. Blood wells up around the pink, raw flesh beneath, and Sam watches the water whisk it away.

He tidies his little figurines afterwards, and - when that doesn’t quell the angry heat rising in his stomach - he downs the last of his cheap beer. _That_ doesn’t work much, either - rather, it serves to get him drunk and steals away the last of his self control.

And _that’s_ enough for him to sink onto his gray bed and pull at his pants.

He doesn’t normally do jerking off - never liked it, really. Liked talking about it even less, for that matter, whenever Bridget tried to _teach_ him about his _growing body_ and whatnot. But he’s riled up, now, angry and irritated and energetic and really _not_ all at once, and he’s got no better - no _other_ \- alternatives. 

He starts slow and ends up quickening his pace, a natural reaction; the last time he did this was at least half a year ago, and _God_ if he’s not sensitive because of it. The feeling’s more vivid than he remembers - a sharp jolt so unlike the sting of a MULE’s crude pole, so much _better_ \- and his mouth runs dry. He can’t concentrate, lifted by his buzz and this new sort of high; his mind wanders before he can stop it.

It doesn’t stray too far at first - goes simple, goes easy. The usual, or at least for Sam, consisting purely of anything that’s eroctic enough to keep him going.

He runs out, eventually - gets bored, almost. His cock slows its gradual rise; the heat in the pit of his stomach refuses to _burn_ like he needs it to. 

He lets his mind wander further; it strays too far and reaches _Higgs_.

Fuck.

It’s more than enough, the singular _thought_ of him. Sam can feel heat pooling between his legs faster than it should, can feel his hips canter upwards out of their own will, can feel something _building_ because _Higgs_ -

Because Higgs - _Higgs_ is so … 

Higgs is Higgs, with his commanding voice and sarcastic words, with the astoundingly sharp edge of a slow drawl.

Higgs, with his fondness for adventure and fun and, as of late, popping in at shockingly awful moments.

Higgs, with his fair skin and so very _blue_ eyes - the lanky form Sam’s run his hands over only twice before, the chiseled plane of strong shoulders, and that mouth.

Fuck, that _mouth_ -

Sam groans _something_ before he can stop himself. It’s not intentional - comes from instinct rather than tact - and it takes him a good moment of _moving_ to realize he’s gone and blurted Higgs’s name.

He pants heavy, ragged, and pauses.

Wait. 

Blinks, too - once, twice, and takes another breath.

Wait, shit. _God_ , wait-

“Higgs Monaghan, _right_ at your service,” drawls that so-very familiar voice, casual and slow. “ _Apologies_ if I lag - I’ve got a bit of … _work_ to do.” He hasn’t his whole focus on Sam, and Sam - oh, God, Sam’s hands _are still-_ “You don’t mind if I-”

Sudden as rain, there’s nothing coming from the other end; the quiet is quite deafening. He’s sure his face is flushed entirely red.

Fuck this. Fuck this so bad, _God_.

It stays quiet for a minute.

Maybe two. 

And then Higgs takes a breath, harsh and sudden and _telling_. Sam throws all hopes away and feels his hands curl into fists.

“Sam." His voice sounds throatier, heavier - _darker_ than it should be. Sinful, really.

“Oh my. Oh _my, my, my._ ”

The porter can feel the tension on his shoulders build; he’s not sure where this is going, and he’s never been a fan of the unknown. He wishes Higgs would say something different. 

“ _Sam._ ” Higgs’s voice is sharper - more than usual. There’s danger in the unusual rush of his tone, and he wonders what he’s getting at. “You … Jesus, Sam!” There’s nervous laughter edging his voice; Sam’s not sure why.

“I,” he starts, although he really hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say. The heat, unfortunately, is slipping back simply from the saccharine, molasses-smooth sound of his _voice_. “Higgs, I-” 

Another sharp breath. There’s another pause. 

“Say that again.”

What?

“Say what?” He sounds throaty and rough and like he’s had four rounds of sex; he grimaces.

There’s more heavy breathing. He tries his best to be patient and waits.

“Say my _name_ , Bridges,” the other snaps, harsh and gruff and _possessive_ with a tone bordering on a growl; the heat suddenly _floods_. 

“ _Say it again._ ”

“Higgs, what-” he says before he can think, and the comm winks out with nothing but a soft sound.

The room falls quiet, save his own harsh breath.

He finds he hasn’t the time to think - with no prior warning or fanfare, Higgs materializes in moments, overcoat flapping gently in a conjured breeze.

Sam refocuses his attention to the shaking mass at the other side of the room; he’s got his mask on again, he notices. The porter stills and watches, entirely immobile, as he exchanges metallic gold and black for pale ivory and darkening cerulean blue.

He raises his gaze - lowly, carefully - to meet his eyes and regrets it; Higgs looks like utter _sin_. 

His lips curve slowly; Sam swallows.

His fingers raise gently, carefully, and flip the hood from his head. Sam’s sure he’s teasing - that he’s got control of the situation somehow, as he always does - but the subliminal quiver of those long limbs note otherwise.

“Now, Sam,” he says, careful and remarkably even, “I think we’re gonna have a problem here.”

The gravity of the situation isn’t hitting him properly; he thinks, if he was a little more sober and a little less sex-high, he would understand. “And what’s that?” His voice sounds so much slower, so much quieter.

There’s an audible growl rising in Higgs’s throat, replacing the usual amused humm. He advances further - hastily, suddenly, as if he’s growing afraid Sam will flee - and their knees bump together.

“When I’m trying,” he says, excruciatingly slow, “to do _work_ , I can’t have you …” His smile slips away, same as his voice, and he raises a hand to tilt the other’s chin up. His fingers are light - gentle like a dancer’s and far too soft for anything near Sam. 

“Messing around,” he settles. His eyes are smoldering; it’s really, really not _fair_. “It’s a bit _distracting_ , sweetheart.” 

Slender fingers pinch his chin. Instinctively, the porter turns his face away. There’s a snarl rising from his chest before he can stop himself - he feels like an old alleycat, fearful of any sort of kindness and unwilling to learn. 

" _Hmm._ I'll let you get away with it this time." There's a smirk playing on Higgs's lips; it's likely he knows exactly what he wants and exactly how he'll get it. Sam doesn't move; he's a bit afraid, in truth, doesn't want to screw things up. Before he can say anything, he wonders, wonders above the uncomfortable heat, the strange electricity - wonders why Higgs even bothers with him. 

Higgs lets out a sigh, a little frustrated, a little impatient. “C'mon, Sam, live a little. Can’t expect the things you want to be given to you, can you?”

He doesn’t move.

He’s really doing this, isn’t he?

He takes a breath.

He knows for a fact that he can choose to walk away now - can choose to shut everything down, to get onto his feet and zip everything up and set out on his next order like nothing’s happened at all. He knows that Higgs will let him, too; God, he’s too much for him.

He can. He can choose to do it all.

Or he can choose to throw caution to the wind to just - just-

Fuck it. He can’t help himself.

He curls a slow hand around Higgs’s neck and hesitant, careful, gentle for someone like him, leans a little forward.

Their foreheads touch just barely; he finds he doesn’t mind it. The room sounds empty save for the sound of heavy breathing. There’s no clear distinction, no line, where his begins and Higgs’s ends. He doesn’t mind, he finds - he doesn’t mind at all.

It’s fine like this. It’s perfectly this.

Still, he - something inside of him - craves _more_.

It’s like he’s flipped some sort of switch, the way Higgs’s pupils dilate. It’s almost comical.

“Attaboy,” he says, pleased and breathless. His body leans in further, as if victim to some sort of gravitational pull. 

Sam - Sam’s not quite sure what to do. There’s breath on his face, warm and then hot, and Higgs laughs.

“Well? Get on with it, then. No going back now.” There’s challenge in that naturally sultry voice, in those dark eyes, in the slender arm snaking its way across his back. 

He’s not good at learning. Still, hell if he won’t try, he decides, and closes the sparse distance.

Then they’re kissing, altogether foregoing the tenderness of their first, and Sam just can’t _think_. The fire in his stomach, the heat - it spikes furiously because Higgs is simply so shockingly _electrifying_ his body can’t process any of it. Higgs is hot and fast and _there_ where Sam draws a little back, where Sam slackens the pace. He’s learning, growing steadier and more confident, and, eventually, he adjusts. 

His left hand cups the taller’s head and pushes it forwards, tilts it as he sees fit. The right, reckless and idiotically drunk like the rest of him, tugs at his thick gray overcoat. Higgs chuckles and steps away to slip it off, slow as all hell - teasing, pushing where he can. Sam doesn’t miss it - a growl, feral and inhuman, forces its way out of him, body suddenly impatient, suddenly _hungry_. He reaches out to touch before he can stop himself.

The taller skates out of reach on nimble toes - damn him - and the chuckle turns into a laugh. It fills the room with sound, spilling dauntless and unguarded from kiss-swollen lips, and Sam just _can’t wait_.

“ _Patience_ ,” Higgs says, separating the pod from his chest with a click, and it’s just _one word_ but his voice makes it sound like a fucking dream. 

The coat’s shed eventually; by then Sam’s near snarling. He wraps his arms around Higgs’s waist and stands, trousers hanging loosely on his hips. There’s a knowing sparkle in the other’s eye, although a yelp of surprise still escapes him when Sam flips them around.

“Woah there, Sammy boy! Somebody’s _eager_!”

Sam pauses.

“Want me to stop?”

Higgs leans back on his elbows, breath coming out in labored puffs. Their knees are connected; Sam _feels_ it when he spreads his legs a little further apart. “Didn’t say that, sweetheart,” he says, and grins. “Why _delay_ the _inevitable_?” His hips canter a little forward and he kisses him again.

It’s far more frantic now, the way Higgs kisses. He licks into his mouth, sweeping and searching, and presses his body flush against Sam’s. When he’s pushed a little forward, he falls back and sprawls exposed on the bed.

Sam pulls back a little bit, collects his breathing, and blanches - Higgs looks _blasphemous_ , pale skin flushed, chest heaving. He can’t stop _staring_.

“Haven’t got all day,” Higgs drawls, voice thicker than usual, and pulls Sam forward by the collar of his thin shirt. He mouths eagerly at the tender junction of skin between his jaw and neck; an embarrassing noise escapes Sam before he can help himself. 

They continue their song and dance for minutes, hours - he’s not completely sure. It’s all erratic in pace and most of their clothing end up lost along the way; Sam’s shirt lands somewhere on the bedside table, and Higgs’s pants fall to the ground. 

He winces ever so slightly as Higgs runs a hand over a fresh burn. It’s small and fairly raw, that little pocket of skin, but the inexplicable _feeling_ Higgs gives him - the marks he makes on the rest of his skin - more than make up for it. Sam nips skin, chases it with eager tongue, and wonders why they don’t do this on a regular basis; maybe, he amends, they’ll start.

Sam’s mouth gapes when Higgs licks at the shell of his ear, at his neck, at his shoulder - his teeth are just as restless as his hands. He’s making broken noises - bitten off groans, whines - and biting his cheek, the edge of a smile on his face. Sam can tell he’s trying to be patient, languid, trying to draw this out and not embarrass himself in the meantime. He finds he isn’t doing a very good job at it; Sam can feel his _arousal_ pressing against his leg. He stifles an unusual smile and, impulsively, ventures downwards, nosing against his chest, his stomach.

Higgs is full-on panting now, mouth wide, chest heaving. The pale column of flesh on his neck is painted by blooming bruises, little red markings Sam’s teeth have left behind. He looks down at Sam, hair disheveled, lips swollen from kisses, and opens them to speak.

“Suck me?” he asks, face flushed completely red, and he’s not laughing like it’s a joke but it really sounds like it and Sam - Sam-

Sam laughs, feels it bubble out of his chest before he can really help it, and it’s quiet and throaty with the sound of sex but it still makes Higgs’s eyes widen like a waxing moon. 

“That a yes or n-”

Sam slips down and - before his common sense can catch up - clumsily slips his cock into his mouth. It’s already leaking, smeared with pre-come at the very edge. He winces around the weight in his mouth at the strange taste; he’s never swallowed come before. He’s never sucked anyone off, either, but tries to do it well; he hollows his cheeks, bobs his head, strokes when he needs a breather. 

It’s not particularly fulfilling - not while he’s still uncomfortably hard - but the way Higgs reacts is so very worth it. He’s starting to lose control, mouth ajar, limbs trembling. He’s making noises - far louder than whimpers but too garbled to be anything but - and his hips won’t stop bucking forwards. 

His hand finds its way to the other’s long hair eventually and _pulls_ , gentle enough but without warning; Sam frowns over the weight in his mouth.

“Uhng - _al-almost there_ , Sammy,” he chokes; his body’s rising helplessly from the bed. He’s unusually pliable - so damn gentle with his hands despite the profanities in his mouth - and that, Sam decides inexplicably, won’t do without reward. 

He keeps on going, hands roaming the softer bits of Higgs’s skin, rubbing slow and gentle. He’s still uncomfortably hard, still rutting so very softly against the mattress for relief, but he finds more pressing issues when Higgs suddenly shouts aloud.

His come floods thick and strange into Sam’s mouth. He chokes the viscous liquid down out of simple instinct and coughs as Higgs lowers back onto the bed. The other’s limbs shake, exhausted from exertion, and he releases a heavy sigh. 

Sam grunts, crotch still pushing slowly at the bed like a stupid teenager. “Help me out, will you?” he asks, cheeks flushed, against Higgs’s leg.

He manages a low chuckle. “Should’ve asked sooner, honey,” he says, and pulls Sam up with both arms, chasing his mouth with his own. His cock’s flacid, limp as all hell, but he aligns it with the shorter’s and rolls his hips all the same, pushing Sam’s trousers further down with his free hand.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against Higgs’s mouth; he really can’t help himself. He curls a hand around Higgs’s hip, holding it in place as he rocks a little forward. “Fuck … oh, _God_.”

Higgs, dark eyes all blown out with lust, swallows. “K-keep at it, Sammy, _there you go_ …” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Higgs stutter in any other sort of situation than _this_.

The heat’s arcing all around his body, spreading all across him, and he’s never really felt like this - never really felt nearly this _good_ so he really just can’t - he just can’t fight the-

Oh, _shit_.

He releases harsh and sudden, come splattering across Higgs’s body and his own in unseemly stripes. He takes a moment or two to breathe, uneven from utter exhaustion, and feels his body slump to the mattress, dragged down by both gravity and Higgs’s quivering arms.

They’re both breathing, heavy and spent, both unmoving save for the subtle shake of their entangled limbs. Sam can hardly move; he watches Higgs opens his mouth to speak and end up leaving it open for a while, lips too weary to shaping new words.

“Mi ... mind if I crash for a bit, Sammy boy?” 

He blinks.

“Whatever,” he says, mostly indifferent, and drifts off in the comfort of a quiet warmth.

\---

When he wakes up, Higgs is still there - pale, long-limbed, and curled around him like an overly affectionate cat. His limbs are stiff, sore like he's crossed the entire country, and there's dried come on his stomach and Higgs's that he tries his damned best to ignore.

Hell. That was-

Higgs smiles down at him, dark-traced eyes gleaming with something akin to mischief, and flicks his nose. 

“Sweetheart, keep that up and I'll _never_ get any work done,” he says, and Sam _laughs._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: https://marcmarcmarcus.tumblr.com/
> 
> title from "Sanctuary" by Joji  
> please drop a kudos/comment. : ]


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